


Blood is Thicker than Water but Flows Just as Free

by i_am_made_of_memoriies



Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort, F/F, I don't really know anything about Cyberia so I'm making shit up here, Jonny and Nastya are siblings and that's that, Lesbians in Space, Royalty, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:55:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24811921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_made_of_memoriies/pseuds/i_am_made_of_memoriies
Summary: Nastya could never say she had a good relationship with her biological brothers. She wouldn't say she had a good relationship with Jonny either, but that was just out of spite.(title from Pieces by The Mechanisms)
Relationships: Jonny d'Ville & Nastya Rasputina, The Aurora/Nastya Rasputina
Comments: 22
Kudos: 142





	Blood is Thicker than Water but Flows Just as Free

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, I am making up pretty much everything I say about Cyberia. It is loosely based off of pre-Bolshevik Russia but I don't really know shit about that either, so here we are. The Cain Instinct group chat talks about Nastya and Jonny bonding as siblings and I just loose it.  
> Working title: FUCK royalty

Rain beats against the thin panes of arched windows in Nastya’s room, bringing in languid drafts of frigid air. Despite the near constant rain, the air never feels clean; there is always some unknown pollutant weighing down the grey sky and snaking its way into Nastya’s lungs. She sits on a fainting couch, her back perfectly straight and supported by a bolster cushion as her tutor paces in front of her, explaining the grammar of a language Nastya does not know. The rough lace of her dress rubs uncomfortably against her collarbone, but she knows that she can not adjust it, much less change into something more comfortable. Her tutor stops, their arms falling to their side from their position of emphasis in the air. They turn their gaze to Nastya, eyeing her with an air of amused curiosity; she looks back, staring over the wire frame of her glasses. If her tutor is to ask her a question about the material they were just covering, Nastya will be able to repeat their last few words perfectly, regardless of whether her understood the material or not. She is practiced in this performative teaching. Her tutor does not spring a question on her, though. Instead they just chuckle–a dry and almost pitying laugh. 

“The life of royalty weighs on you already, doesn’t it, Anastasia?” they say, closing their book slowly. “But just wait until you get to rule! You will have so much power in your hands. And so much responsibility.”

Nastya nods, acknowledging her tutor’s statement. She has nothing to say in response–well, nothing she could say in front of her tutor. The loneliness of her life weighs heavily on her, and now that she is no longer considered a child, she is no longer permitted to entertain herself with make believe games and other acts of childish whimsy. Her brothers are more often absent then not, exploring the far reaches of the Syetka with her father, learning to rule. Nastya has been promised power by parent and tutor alike, but no one has ever told her how it will manifest. Will she oversee the downloading of soldiers like her mother or will she rule the people–people with which she has never truly interacted–like her father? Her tutor rambles on about people in a far off land and of people of a far off time, but never of those merely meters from her. She learns of artificial intelligences and of digital realities, but never in enough depth for her to recreate those scientific processes herself. Her lack of in-depth knowledge frustrates her to no end. 

Her tutor places their book on a shelf, filled with ornately bound books, all of which Nastya has already read, but all of which discuss distant planets, foreign languages, or fictitious worlds. She used to enjoy losing herself in the latter, but as time goes on, she finds that she can not lose herself in a fictional world if she does not even know about her own. 

“Have a good evening, Anastasia.” Her tutor’s hand lingers on the crystalline doorknob. “I hear your brother, Alexei will be returning later today. Perhaps you can spend time with him after dinner. That is assuming your father has not already given him another assignment, of course. Your brothers are always so busy, are they not?”

With that, they leave the room, closing the door behind them with a jarring thud, and leaving Nastya alone in her bedroom. She finally adjusts the irritating lace at her collar, slumping back into the cushions. The numerous finely woven rugs in her room do little to retain heat in her room, and she finds herself shivering even under her heavy, layered dress. She knows that she will be called down for dinner in mere moments, summoned by a tired looking servant to which she is not allowed to talk save a brisk ‘thank you’ or an order, so she rises slowly from her couch and finds her fine gloves. Gazing into the mirror, she fixes her hair and adjusts her dress so that it sits perfectly, devoid of stubborn wrinkles. 

Nastya hears a light knock on her door moments after she finishes getting ready for dinner. A young woman stands in the doorway, several inches shorter than Nastya, though she appears to be about her age. Her dark hair is pulled back in a white cloth made of the same material as her apron. She bids Nastya to dinner as expected and Nastya offers her a quick ‘thank you’ before closing her door behind her and following the drafty, winding hallways of the palace. 

Her father and brothers are already seated at the long dining table when Nastya arrives, their hands folded perfectly in their laps. 

“Your mother will not be joining us tonight,” Nastya’s father, Nicholas, says. “She is managing an army in the far reaches of the Syetka and will likely not return for a few days.” 

Nastya nods and takes a seat beside her brother, Alexei, but he does not seem to respond. He sits still as a statue, gazing indefinitely forward, and Nastya figures that if she dared to touch his hand, he would be as cold and stiff as one as well. Her other brothers are holding a quiet conversation with each other, though Nastya can not make out their words from her seat at the table. Finally, a servant enters the dining room with platters of food and all quiet mumbling ceases. Nastya eats her dinner in silence as she was taught, sneaking glimpses at Alexei throughout the meal in hopes that he will notice her. But he takes no notice, and finishes his meal without even a glance. 

As Alexei rises from the table and leaves the dining room after dinner ends, Nastya hurries after him, the click of her heels on the marble floors resonating through quiet hallways. Finally, Alexei stops and turns to face Nastya, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. 

“Would you like something, Anastasia?” he asks. He does not even use Nastya’s preferred nickname. 

“I have not seen you for a while.” Nastya fiddles uncomfortably with the hem of her flowing sleeve. “I was wondering how you were.”

“I am doing well. Father has many assignments for me, so I have found myself busy more times than not. You have been busy with your studies as well, haven’t you?”

In reality, Nastya has not. She pays very little attention while her tutor lectures and her tutor seems to take no mind. As long as Nastya can answer the occasional question or offer the occasional explanation, they seem pleased enough. 

“Yes, I guess,” she lies, shrugging. 

Alexei turns to leave, but Nastya follows after him again. She would like to reach for his hand, but she knows that it is not allowed. 

“Would you want to play a boardgame or something this evening?” She figures that it is a lost cause, but it has been more than a year since she did something fun with any of her brothers. 

Alexei just chuckles and continues walking. “Good night, Anastasia,” he says, his long coat fluttering behind him with the draft. 

Muttering a curse under her breath, Nastya turns in the hallway, exiting a grand glass door into the garden. There is no source of illumination save the weak glimmer of the moon behind thick rainclouds, but Nastya knows the layout well enough to find a bench. She sits in the garden as rain pounds down on her ornate dress, cold drops seeping through layers of lace. 

When she decides to go back inside the palace, her dress is thoroughly drenched and droplets of water drip from her hair which has since fallen out of its up-do. She wrings out her dress in front of the garden door, hiking it up above her knees as she hurries through the hallways and up to her room. Once in her room, she calls for a bath to be drawn by an AI servant and alone in her steam-obscured bathroom, she imagines chasing and playing games with a sibling. 

* * *

Nastya sits, leaning on the Aurora’s main console, listening to her low hum. Aurora has hiked the heat up in the engine room high enough for Nastya to take her coat off and sit comfortably after she has finished repairing whatever part of the ship Tim has managed to destroy. 

“Yes, the next planet we’re going to has some incredibly rare metals,” Nastya tells Aurora. “I can steal some for you if you’d like?”

The Aurora hums happily, her lights flickering.

“Jonny and I can make it a heist!” Nastya’s face breaks into a grin. “We can find some fancy handoff of the rare metal in some upscale bar then it will descend into a gunfight and chaos and we’ll escape with the metal and leave some carnage behind us. We can dress up, too!”

The lights flicker again, faster this time.

“Hey, don’t laugh at me!” Nastya flicks the control panel affectionately. “I know it's a little ornate and bloody for my taste, but I can have fun too every now and then. I’ll tell Jonny tonight at dinner.”

Aurora hums softly, the floor ringing with resonance.

“No need to thank me, love. It will be fun!”

As if on cue, Jonny bursts through the engine room door, gun brandished. 

“You fucking stole my eyeliner!” He exclaims, levelling his gun at Nastya. “You know that’s my favorite one!”

“I did not!” Nastya insists, jumping to her feet and reaching for a wrench. “I wouldn’t steal your shitty makeup anyway. I steal my own when we’re planetside.”

“Tim said he saw you take it!” Jonny grins, knowing he’s won the argument. “I stole his eyes because he was being a bitch and he said that he saw you take the eyeliner from my room.”

“That  _ snitch _ !” Nastya makes a mental note to shoot Tim on sight next time she sees him. “I should have checked to see if his eyes were lying around.”

“You better give it back or I  _ will _ shoot you and then we’ll start up another century-long round of manhunt.”

“It’s a long time coming, you know.”

“Oh you–” Jonny puts his gun down and rushes towards Nastya, throwing himself at her. 

Unfortunately for Jonny, the few inches Nastya has on him stops her from going down when he launches himself and he is left clinging to her like an angry koala. Nastya wiggles out of his grip and sprints across the engine room, grabbing her coat as she bolts into the Aurora’s hallways. She runs on the ground for a few meters, peeking over her shoulder to see Jonny in hot pursuit. In one swift motion, she vaults herself into a conveniently open vent, slamming it closed behind her. 

“Getting Aurora to help you is fucking cheating!” Jonny yells from beneath the vent.

“It’s not my fault she loves me!” Nastya crawls deeper into the vents, heading in the direction of the kitchen so that she can use some other crewmates as shields from Jonny. 

As soon as she is directly above the kitchen, she gently kicks a vent open and drops down from the ceiling, tumbling to the ground in front of the table. Ashes looks up from their drink with a disapproving gaze while Marius yelps in fear. 

“Jonny’s after you again?” Ashes asks, taking a sip from a flaming drink. 

Nastya jumps to her feet, smoothing her shirt and composing herself in front of the other crewmates. “Yes, and I think he will be in here any moment now.”

Nastya grabs Marius’s arm and heaves him in front of her just as Jonny throws the door open and fires a shot. She takes off sprinting again, knowing that Jonny would not shoot blindly at her and risk hurting the Aurora in her presence. She leads Jonny through warm, familiar hallways, until she reaches an open hall. She has no idea what it was supposed to be used for, as there is no furniture or equipment. The ceilings are vaulted and high, her boots echoing off the metal floor and through the room. She stands in the middle of the room, her hands on her hips, facing Jonny as he jogs towards her.

“You’re not even gonna put up a fight?” he taunts, gesturing with the gun in his hand. “That’s no fun.”

“Your hair’s a mess.” Nastya lowers herself onto the metal floor, waiting for Jonny to come to her. “Let me fix that rats’ nest.”

“We’ve been busy lately!” Jonny protests, but still sits down in front of Nastya, his back facing her. “You better not make me look stupid.”

“I don’t need to do anything for that.” She combs through his hair with her fingers, sectioning it off with a length of string she had found in her pocket. “Now I’m going to do a good job with these braids and if you mess them up, I’ll throw you to the octokittens.”

“Fuck you, I can’t promise anything.” Of course, Jonny will do his best to keep the braids in both out of appreciation for Nastya and genuine enjoyment of how the braids look. 

Nastya starts braiding Jonny’s hair, opting for a half-up style. “So, the planet we are going to land on has some pretty rare metals. Aurora says she wants some, so you want to stage a heist? I did some reading on this planet, and it seems like there’s a serious black market for these metals and the handoffs happen in upscale places.”

“We’d get to do some good violence?”

“Of course. And we could dress up!” Nastya ties off Jonny’s hair with another length of string, surveying her handiwork with a pleased eye. 

Jonny raises his hand to touch the braids, a small smile creeping onto his features as he does so. “Yeah sure, sounds like fun,” he says, leaning back into Nastya.

“You’re a good brother, you know that?”

“God no! No one is allowed to use the word ‘good’ in the same sentence as me unless there’s a ‘not’ in there as well.”

“You’re not good at marksmanship.”

“Oh fuck off.”

  
  



End file.
